


Rebellion Through Wine

by Arenal



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arenal/pseuds/Arenal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based roughly on this prompt: http://angliya.tumblr.com/post/48222950320/les-miserables-1920s-au-rumrunner</p>
<p>It's the 1920s in America and Prohibition is the law of the land. Les Amis protest the best way they know--they run a speakeasy under the Musain Hotel in New York. Meanwhile, the owners of a competing speakeasy are giving Les Amis trouble, and Javert, the local police inspector dedicated to cracking down on illegal alcohol, is hunting everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to Break the Law Without Really Being a Criminal

**Author's Note:**

> (I took a lot of historical liberties in this story. Let's just pretend that Les Amis were way more accepting of gay and mixed-race relationships than everybody else at the time. Also, I wasn't sure what the speech patterns of the era were like so I wrote most of the dialogue the way people talk today. And that's ignoring the entire issue of Jazz Age Americans having names like Enjolras and Eponine.)

Joly walked down the alley slowly, wary and nervous. There was a loud, sudden bang in the vicinity, and Joly started.  
From behind him, he heard a sarcastic snicker. “You all right, buddy?”  
Joly whirled on his heel to see a young man of around his age sprawled near the entrance to the alley, in the darkest corner available. The man’s messy black curls fell over his face, nearly touching the lip of the dark glass bottle he was drinking from.  
The man’s rasping snicker rose again. “What’re you so scared of?”  
With the nervous energy of a soldier about to go into battle, Joly noticed several things at once—namely, that though the man appeared to be very drunk, there was something sharp and alert in his eyes and the set of his face; that though the alley was dim and very small, it was surprisingly clean; that though Joly and the man appeared to be alone in the alley, there was a subtle vibration that might have been made by several voices talking at once in a close but hidden room.  
Joly was surprised he could even feel it anymore, after the noise and fury of the war. He’d become very sensitive, he supposed. Always too alert. Or maybe he was just imagining the vibration because he knew what to expect.  
“Are—are you—” he started nervously, and finally just point to the bottle the man was holding. “That. Where’s—”  
The man swung to his feet with a lazy ease, which was immediately ruined by his subsequent drunken stumble. “You a policeman? You gonna crack down on the place I got this?”  
Joly frowned. “If I were, I’d hardly tell you.”  
The man shook his hair away from his face, and Joly noticed that his nose was slightly crooked as if it had been broken and set badly. He looked over Joly carefully.  
“No,” Joly said finally, uncomfortable with the silence. He was very unused to silence and too much silence disturbed him now almost as much as too much noise. “I’m not a policeman, if you can take my word for it.”  
The man shrugged and took a swig from his bottle. “Whatever. What’s wrong with you? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”  
Yeah, Joly thought, too many.  
“No.”  
The man kept staring at Joly, looking puzzled, and finally Joly started to walk away. The man collapsed on the pavement once more and started singing loudly, and Joly wondered if he’d been mistaken when he thought the man’s mind was still sharp. Maybe he was nothing more than a drunkard.  
Joly carefully made his way to a door labeled Service Only and tapped on it nervously.  
The door opened slightly—a chain prevented it from being opened any farther—and through the crack, Joly caught a glimpse of shaggy black hair and a single clear blue eye. The effect was eerie.  
“Look, man, this door is for service people only,” the owner of the blue eye said mechanically, not really looking at Joly. “Gotta go in the front way if you’re not one of the staff—oh.” He focused on Joly. “Hey, Joly. Should’ve said it was you.”  
“Hey, Courfeyrac,” Joly replied as the man unchained the door and welcomed him in. “You’re taking the watch? I didn’t think it was your usual time.”  
“Yeah, Enjolras is out for now and told me to cover for him. Anyway, why didn’t you come in the front way?”  
“There was somebody watching the old place,” Joly said. “I thought I might’ve been followed last time so I took a different route this time. Who’s the guy out in the alley? A customer?”  
“One of our people. New,” Courfeyrac said, grinning. “Grantaire—he’s hilarious. He latched himself on to Enjolras a while back and came here with us. He drinks enough to make up for Enjolras too. Enjolras gets exasperated, but—” Courfeyrac shrugged. “Well, anyway, this place is brighter for having Grantaire around.”  
Together, they entered the spacious, well-lit room underneath Mr. Leblanc’s well-respected hotel, the Musain. The room’s style was reminiscent of a European café, and it was thronged with young men and women.  
Jehan bounded over to Joly—if Courfeyrac hadn’t been on guard duty, he and Jehan would have battled to be the first to greet the newcomer—and ruffled Joly’s soft, shaggy, dark brown hair.  
“You gotta get a haircut, man!” Jehan laughed delightedly. Jehan had three settings—friendly and lighthearted, sweet and romantic, and fiercely protective. Despite his cheerful, romantic exterior, he was one of the best hand-to-hand combatants in the group, second only to Enjolras himself.  
“Yeah, yeah.” Joly knocked Jehan’s hand away. They reenacted this farce nearly every time Joly came in. As his friends chattered around him, he relaxed. “What about you?”  
Jehan’s hair was, in fact, longer than Joly’s, but much neater, and fair.  
“I’ll get my hair cut when you do yours,” Jehan said.  
“Joly, glad you’re here!” Combeferre called from across the room. “I want you to look at these numbers.”  
Combeferre, as the resident intellectual, usually dealt with the group’s economics, frequently aided by Joly.  
Joly went over to Combeferre and peered at the piece of paper that Combeferre was frowning at.  
“Yeah?”  
“Look, this doesn’t match up.” Combeferre ran his finger down the column detailing how much money they’d taken in and then down the column of their expenditures. “I mean, we took in more than this balance says—”  
Joly shook his head. “I don’t know. We should ask Enjolras when he gets back.”  
“Are you kidding? It was Enjolras,” someone behind Joly rasped. He turned to see the man from outside—Grantaire, that was it. He was drinking from a new bottle now.  
“What do you mean?” Joly asked.  
“Enjolras took some of the cash recently. I saw him leave earlier; he told me he was going to the poorhouse down in the red light district as a proxy for Leblanc. Leblanc can’t show his face much in shady areas anymore because he’s already suspected. I told Enjolras when he went out that it probably wasn’t wise for him to do that either; sooner or later the police will catch on to Enjolras too, but how do you stop an idealist in full flight?” Grantaire shrugged.  
Combeferre sighed. “It’s very good of Enjolras to do that, but reckless. I don’t even know whether to scold him or not.” Only Combeferre could have said those words seriously. Enjolras was simply not a man one could scold easily. Even the fearless Jehan could occasionally be cowed by Enjolras.  
“Well, at any rate, he should’ve told us he was taking the money before he went so we could balance the books properly,” Joly said.  
“I told him it would be easier for me to distribute money and gather customers down there because I already have friends in the area,” Grantaire said, in a tone that made Joly think he wasn’t really aware that anyone was listening to him. “He thought it was a ridiculous idea. I’m just the drunkard in the alley—I can’t win anybody over.” He chuckled bitterly. “I’m good for nothing.”  
Joly couldn’t figure out how to respond, or even if he should. Luckily, he was saved from having to think of something by a quick tapping of feet coming down the steps from the hotel above. Cosette and Musichetta breezed into the room together.  
“You haven’t been here for a while,” Musichetta whispered in Joly’s ear as she gave him a quick hug. “I missed you.” Even those simple words sounded sultry coming from Musichetta.  
“I thought I might’ve been followed last time. I figured I’d lie low for a bit,” Joly explained, kissing her.  
“Where’s my kiss?!” Bossuet called cheerfully from his perch on a shelf cut into the wall.  
“I saw you yesterday,” Musichetta said with a flirtatious smile.  
“You did more than see each other,” Combeferre muttered dryly without looking up from his work.  
There was a round of laughter, born more from the easy camaraderie in the room than from Combeferre’s remark.  
Musichetta ignored Combeferre’s remark, kissing Joly long and soundly, and finally breaking away to sit with Cosette and Eponine, who were at a table in a corner.  
Courfeyrac stared after Musichetta in some slight consternation. “How did you two idiots get a girl like that?”  
Bossuet, coming over, shook his head. “I don’t know any more about it than you do. We’re just lucky devils, I guess. But it’s fair—Musichetta’s the only luck I’ve ever gotten in my life and that’s enough for me.”  
Courfeyrac shot his patented brilliant smile smile in the direction of the young women. Eponine glanced up and grinned at him, then returned to her conversation.  
“You’re lucky enough with the ladies as it is,” Bossuet told Courfeyrac, laughing. “You don’t need to infringe on our luck.”  
“I guess not,” Courfeyrac replied, smiling playfully at his friends. But Joly noticed the way his eyes lingered on Eponine as he spoke.

**********************************  
“Hey,” Cosette said, sitting down at the table in the corner with Eponine and trying to ignore Musichetta and Joly’s loud display of affection behind her.  
Eponine, who had been leaning back in her chair and apparently ignoring everything, opened her clear green-gray eyes and yawned. Cosette was reminded strongly of a cat pretending it didn’t have a care in the world but in reality watching its surroundings carefully to make sure no dogs were nearby.  
“Morning,” Eponine replied.  
“You came in early?”  
“Yeah. Enjolras wasn’t gonna be in till later and he wanted people to hold down the fort. Only Combeferre and I were available as early as he wanted. Well, and Courfeyrac, but he slept on one of the tables for two hours, so he doesn’t count.”  
Cosette chuckled. “Yeah, where is Enjolras?”  
“Going down to the red light district ’cause your father can’t afford to be see ’round there.”  
Cosette took a deep breath and calmly asked, “Javert?”  
Eponine nodded solemnly, looking at her friend with approval. Cosette looked like a simple-minded, flowery girl, but in fact the woman had a good head, a good heart, and a backbone of steel.  
Just then, Musichetta bounded over, having finally broken away from Joly, who was looking slightly dazed. “How are you, Eponine? Seems like you’ve been practically sleeping here lately.”  
“Yeah. Kind of. It’s comfortable, anyway” Eponine glanced up briefly and noticed Courfeyrac smiling at them. She’d known him for a while now; they were very close friends, but…damn, that boy’s incredible smile still had the power to make her heart kick slightly.   
“What do you mean?” Musichetta asked, and Eponine returned her attention to the girls.  
Eponine kicked herself mentally. She hadn’t meant to let on that she was, in fact, sleeping in the speakeasy. She’d managed to hide it from nearly everyone so far. Enjolras knew, because he kept the keys, so he had to let her in, but he understood about her home life perfectly. Combeferre knew, but only because he was too damn observant. It hardly mattered, because everyone confided in him anyway; he knew everything and never spread the secrets.   
“I’ve been working late,” Eponine told Musichetta. Seeing her friend stare at her with warm, concerned eyes made Eponine want to tell her everything about her problems at home, but she sternly reminded herself that she’d been relying on herself for years and couldn’t let herself get soft now, in the middle of such an important business.   
Musichetta shook her head. “Sometimes I swear Enjolras doesn’t think about anyone else!”  
Eponine winced internally. “Nah, it’s fine. I, uh, I volunteered.”  
“You’re mad, Eponine,” Musichetta said affectionately, flipping her long, glossy brown curls. “You should pay attention to your health, sometimes.”  
Eponine laughed. “Between chasing Gavroche and watching the place for Enjolras, what health do I have to pay attention to?”  
Musichetta chuckled. “Gavroche can take care of himself, you know.”  
“I’m trying to be a conscientious sister!” Eponine retorted, adding silently, Conscientious enough to make up for my parents.  
“You’re so lucky, Eponine,” Cosette said, twirling a lock of flaxen hair around her finger. “I wish I had siblings.”  
This was a wish that Cosette had expressed often, and as always, Musichetta knew exactly the right response.  
She embraced Cosette tightly. “We’re your siblings, honey. Me and Eponine and the boys—you know that.”  
Cosette smiled, but she still looked wistful. “Yeah.”  
“Can you go out?” Musichetta asked sympathetically. “I mean, I know your dad can’t, but surely Javert won’t recognize you—”  
Cosette shrugged. “I don’t know. But I don’t like to leave my dad alone.”  
“Yeah, how’s Mr. Leblanc holding up?” Musichetta asked.  
“He’s nervous, of course,” Cosette said, shaking her head. “He’s trying to hide it, and I wish—I mean, I’m his daughter. I wish he would tell me more. I wish I could help him more.”  
“You help him a lot,” Eponine said softly. I wish I had even a halfway decent relationship with my father. At least you know your father’s a decent human being. “It’s okay, Cosette.” Eponine knew her words were completely inadequate.  
“He wants you to be safe,” Musichetta amended. Seeing Cosette open her mouth to protest, Musichetta continued quickly: “Look, I know you don’t need protecting. Everyone here knows it. But it’s just in parents to be protective of their children. He used to be really secretive, remember? And he’s let you know a lot more now. Things’ll keep getting better. I know that seems like an empty promise now, but I bet you anything it’s true. Anyway, you’re doing a lot. You’re helping him with the hotel, and you’re helping us with this—you’re crazy, Cosette. You work so hard.” Musichetta’s smile sparkled. “It’s incredible. You’re incredible. Don’t be offended by your dad’s desire to protect you. We all protect each other anyway.”  
Cosette couldn’t help but return Musichetta’s smile. “Speaking of my dad, I should see if he needs help. He was expecting some pretty important patrons.”  
Musichetta and Eponine watched Cosette as she darted up the steps.  
“She’s such a good person,” Musichetta muttered, shaking her head. “Sometimes I wish I were as good as Cosette. Her father’s got plenty of help around the hotel and she knows it, but she stays with him anyway, even when she wants to go out.”  
Eponine glanced at Musichetta in surprise, adding only a simple “Yeah”. To Eponine, nearly everyone was better than she, the cynical street kid, was—definitely Musichetta, who made it her goal to help everyone with their problems.   
“By the way, a boy came calling for you a couple days ago at the hotel,” Musichetta said, in a mock-sly voice.  
“Yeah?”  
“Handsome, lean, straight black hair, very kissable lips…” Musichetta paused. “Ringing any bells?”  
“Montparnasse,” Eponine muttered.  
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Musichetta’s smile widened. “If you ask me, Eponine, he’s after you.”  
“That’s okay. I’m not after anyone, thanks. What did you tell him?”  
“You were busy in the speakeasy.”  
“Wait, you told him about this place?”  
Musichetta frowned. “Well, he knew the password.”  
“Musichetta!”  
“What is it between you and this boy anyway?”  
How the hell do I satisfy her curiosity without telling her the whole truth? “He’s my ex-boyfriend. Things ended badly.”   
Musichetta sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Next time he stops by, I’ll kick him out.”  
“No, don’t do that.” Eponine sighed. If Musichetta angered Montparnasse, it would only cause trouble for her. “You can send him down to me if you see him before I do.”  
“Are you sure? You seem worried. I can come too. I’ll rope in some of the boys: Enjolras, Jehan, Courfeyrac—”  
“Nah, it’s okay. I can take care of myself.”  
Musichetta’s face softened. “You always take care of yourself, Eponine. Everyone knows you can. It’s all right to let other people help you sometimes.”  
Eponine shrugged uncomfortably. How could she possibly explain the situation with Montparnasse to Musichetta? “Yeah. Thanks for the offer, Musichetta. I’m gonna go try to find Enjolras.” And maybe Montparnasse—try to head this whole thing off before it starts.   
“There’s somebody else who always wants to take care of himself,” Musichetta muttered as Eponine walked away.  
**********************************  
Bahorel and Feuilly passed Eponine on the stairwell. She seemed very absorbed in her own thoughts, and Bahorel, uncharacteristically for him, didn’t even try to greet her. He knew better.  
He burst into the room with a wide grin and Courfeyrac clapped him on the back.  
“What’s up? Couldn’t get here sooner?”  
“Got held up at the shop,” Bahorel replied. “You know how it is now. People are getting these fancy cars and have no idea how to use them. Hell, we see some real nice ones that are completely battered—saw a big yellow one recently, gorgeous, all shiny and new, but the driver wanted new plates. Didn’t say why, but I bet it’s ’cause he’s in some trouble. I asked the guy who brought it in, only joking, see, what’s up with this, what’d you do, you on the run? And he just looked at me real shifty. Bet you he got it cheap off some gang who needed to get rid of it or he killed somebody and this is the only car he could get and maybe police are tracking it now.”  
“Alright, Bahorel,” Feuilly said. “Nobody here knows what you’re talking about. You just like the sound of your own voice. Incidentally, this is all wild speculation.”  
“Yeah, but interesting to think about,” Bahorel objected.  
Feuilly shrugged. “No business of mine where your thoughts run and no business of yours why a man wants new plates.”  
“It’s anyone’s business if he killed somebody!” Bahorel snapped, adjusting his jacket in the way he did when he was about to argue. It was always interesting to see Bahorel’s jackets. Everyone was amused by the contradiction inherent in a mechanic who took great pride in keeping his clothes clean. And not just any clothes—the brightest patterns of anything he could lay his hands on. Today’s jacket was a bright crimson-and-orange plaid.  
Combeferre laid a soothing hand on Bahorel’s shoulder. “Alright, glad to see you guys. Bahorel, you’ve got a job. Jehan was just in a bit of a scrape and needs his car fixed up.”  
“That’s all you keep me around for is cars,” Bahorel mock-complained, but he was too curious to be offended. “What happened to you, Jehan?”  
“Flat tire,” Jehan said. “I think it was intentional, though. The police are getting better. There was a guy waiting outside one of Meyer Wolfsheim’s drugstores. There was a spike or something, and as I slowed down to check it, I’m pretty sure he got the plate.”  
“Spare plates are in that closet,” Combeferre told Bahorel, pointing out a locked closet and handing over the key. “Make sure you lock up and give that back when you’re done. Tires are in the garbage cans in the alley. Grantaire’s out there now. Get him to help you. He needs something to do besides get drunk anyway.”  
As Bahorel and Feuilly walked away, Jehan tapped Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre turned to see Jehan fighting back a grin and Courfeyrac snickering as quietly as he could manage.  
“What is it?” Combeferre asked.  
Jehan pointed to the darkest available corner of the room. At barely ten o’clock in the morning, and in full view of everyone else in the room, Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly were doing what could only be described as having passionate sex while fully clothed.   
Combeferre sighed and closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. The sooner Enjolras came back, the better.


	2. Chapter 2

Eponine walked down the street, far more fearless in this supposedly dangerous district than a lot of full-grown men would be. Why should she be afraid? She’d grown up here. Everyone in the area knew her family; everyone knew her reputation: If you mess with Eponine, by the end of the encounter, you’ll probably be worse off by a couple of fingers.  
She’d had to cultivate that reputation to survive, especially with her family around.  
“Enjolras?” she called. He’d just gone out on a charity trip. It shouldn’t have taken him this long. “Enjolras!”  
She walked down to the poorhouse and knocked. The proprietor opened the door.  
“Excuse me, did a tall blond guy in a waistcoat stop by earlier—”  
The proprietor, a woman of about 40, whose sister, Eponine knew, ran a brothel next door, got a glazed look in her eyes. “You mean the beautiful one with those blue eyes? Oh yes. He donated a lot. Must have been quite a rich fellow.”  
Eponine sighed. “Yes, him. Which way did he go?”   
The woman shrugged. “Why? He your young man?”  
“No, he’s a friend.”  
“Sure he is, darling. He went down that way.”  
“Right, thanks.”  
“You should tell him to be more careful. Now, I’m not opposed to handsome young men knocking on my door and giving the poor lots of money, but there’s others who see a rich boy like that and think they can make a pretty penny off that.”  
Eponine nodded and repeated her thanks, then rushed off in the direction the woman had indicated.  
As she walked deeper into the district, she slowed her walk and pulled out a knife. Just because she was known around here didn’t mean she didn’t have to be careful.  
“Enjolras?” she called again.  
“Eponine,” a calm voice answered her from a side-street. “Good to see you. Help me out.”  
Eponine stormed up the alley toward her friend. “We were worried about you, Enjolras!”  
“You don’t need to be,” he replied, unperturbed.  
“Just ’cause we don’t need to be doesn’t mean we aren’t,” she snapped.  
“Why should you be?” he said quietly. “You never let anyone worry about you, Eponine.”  
Eponine’s glare was so fierce that he quailed slightly under it. “Never mind that. You want to help me?”  
And then Eponine took a moment to notice the scene. There was blood smeared on the wall of the alley and across Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras was generally disheveled and dirty and his waistcoat was badly torn. There was a body at Enjolras’ feet—a heavyset man whom Eponine knew was part of a gang around the area.  
“Are you okay? What happened?”  
“I’m fine. The blood isn’t mine.” He nudged the man with his foot scornfully. “This man and a couple of his friends jumped me as I was coming back from that pub—you know the one—The Cat’s Liver—”  
“Enjolras, you’re an idiot. That place is a hellhole.”  
He shrugged. “I was looking for customers and people who could join us—”  
“The patrons of The Cat’s Liver are only interested in cheap beer and brawling with each other. None of them would come to the Musain.”   
“If you got them mad, some of them could make life very, very hard for you. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself in this area.”  
“We won’t get anywhere if we don’t have the populace on our side.”  
“You also won’t get anywhere if the populace cuts your throat. Believe me, Enjolras. Recruit anywhere else. Half of the places down here, including The Cat’s Liver, are in my father’s pocket.” Eponine glared at him steadily. “I don’t show much concern usually, do I, Enjolras?”  
“No.” He looked down. “You’re right. I mean, I should believe you anyway because of what just happened. Like I was saying, as I was walking back, three guys jumped me.”  
“And you fought them off?” Eponine stared at him.  
He shrugged like he hadn’t really thought about it. “Knocked this one out.” He gestured down to the man at his feet. “Not sure what I should do with him.”  
Eponine had known that this marble statue of a man was a good fighter, but it had never been brought to her attention just how good he was. He’d run off three men and was standing before her without a scratch.  
“Just leave him here,” Eponine said. “His cronies will be back soon, and they might bring people anyway. You did a good thing today, Enjolras, but I wouldn’t recommend it again. We should get out of here.”  
He nodded and stepped over the man and left with Eponine.   
They were nearly out of the district when a shadow detached itself from the darkness on the other side of the street and joined them.  
“Eponine,” a smooth voice said. There were all kinds of insinuations in the tone and Eponine wanted to run away suddenly, but she steeled herself and stood her ground. She and Enjolras stopped in the middle of the street.  
“Montparnasse,” Eponine said cordially.  
Montparnasse bowed slightly. “Good day, miss.” He glanced at Enjolras and a slow smile slunk across his face. “A very fine new young man you have there, my friend.”  
“I am not hers,” Enjolras said with a steely look. “Eponine and I are friends.” Something in Montparnasse seemed to take stock of the man in front of him and then recoil slightly. He turned his attention back to Eponine.   
“Very well. A pity. I was wondering when you would come see me, Eponine.”  
“Certainly not now,” she snapped. “I’m rather busy.”  
“Returning a cliché with a cliché? I’d expected better of you.”  
“Leave me alone, Montparnasse. I’ll talk to you later.”  
“Will you really? Your friend said you were not in when I called.”  
“That’s because I wasn’t.”  
“I believe we have business to discuss, Eponine. It’s rather urgent.”  
“I have a new business now.”  
“Let’s go, Eponine,” Enjolras said roughly, clapping her on the shoulder. “We don’t need to waste any more time here if you don’t want to.”  
Montparnasse smiled again and looked directly at Enjolras. “Oh, Eponine. It was a mistake for your friend to come here—and perhaps more of a mistake for you.”  
Eponine grabbed Montparnasse’s shirt collar and slammed him against a wall. “Look, Montparnasse, you can say what you want about me, but don’t you dare threaten my friends.”  
Montparnasse’s face suddenly lost its slyness, and he looked far more solemn than Eponine had ever seen him.  
“I’m so sorry, but I needed you to pay attention. Eponine, you don’t realize—we’re actually in some trouble. I’m not usually one to call in a debt—”  
Eponine scoffed loudly.  
“—well, all right, yes I am, but not from someone like you. Please, Eponine, at least talk to me.”  
“This is just another trick, Montparnasse.”  
“Think about it!” he cried. “Yes, you’re right—I’m a thief and a liar and a sneak. But when have I ever been any of those things to you? Talk to me, Eponine. Look, who d’you think kept everyone off Mr. Leblanc’s back when he used to come down here? Who d’you think kept everyone off Enjolras? I know they’re your friends—”  
“Yeah, you did a fine job of keeping everyone off Enjolras,” Eponine snarled.  
And she saw the genuine shock in Montparnasse’s eyes. “Wait, he was attacked?”  
“Where d’you think that blood’s from?”  
“I figured he was in a bar fight. Nobody was supposed to—”  
“Alright Montparnasse, I believe you. But can you just explain what you want?”  
There was a long whistle of two notes from somewhere nearby.  
Montparnasse pushed Eponine away. “That’s my cue.”  
“I thought you needed my help!”  
“I do. Believe me, I do. But the police are coming.” He pointed in the direction of the whistle. “Guess you really haven’t been here in a while. That’s the new code. You need to get out of here right now.”  
Eponine’s eyes widened. “Thank you.”  
“Sure thing.”  
“Look, we’ll talk. But I’m not coming back here. Come to the Musain. The password tomorrow will be—”  
“Eponine!” Enjolras snapped.  
Eponine sighed and gave Montparnasse instructions so quickly they were barely understandable. “Fine. I’ll just tell everyone to be on the lookout for you. Early morning, before we get any business, there’ll be a girl behind the desk about my age, with wavy blond hair. Ask for me by name. I won’t talk to you during business hours.”  
“Absolutely. Thank you so much, Eponine.”  
Montparnasse darted off.  
“What was that—” Enjolras started, but Eponine cut him off.  
“Not now. You heard Montparnasse. Police in the area. This way.”  
*  
“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac called cheerfully as Enjolras and Eponine walked in. “How are you? It’s almost opening time—” He broke off as he took in Enjolras’ bloodstained and dust-covered shirt. “Oh my God. What happened to you?”  
Combeferre looked up to see what Courfeyrac was talking about, but he knew immediately from Enjolras’ expression that Enjolras saw no cause for worry.   
“I was in a fight. Don’t worry; I’m not injured. This blood is someone else’s, but I’d appreciate a clean shirt,” Enjolras replied calmly.   
Jehan went upstairs into the hotel for a new shirt and Joly ran over to Enjolras to check his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re not injured?”  
Enjolras waved Joly off. “I’m fine. Some men in the red-light district jumped me and I fought them off. It doesn’t matter; we need to focus on business anyway.”   
“Were they just average thieves, or did they know who you were?” Combeferre inquired. Were they competitors? Hit men?   
“They didn’t identify me by name,” Enjolras said. “I doubt this had anything to do with business or a vendetta. They were probably after my wallet or a ransom.”  
“You can’t go back there,” Joly said.  
Enjolras rolled his eyes.  
Is he insane?   
“Joly’s right,” Combeferre said. “It would be imprudent—”  
“Prudence be damned!” Enjolras snapped. “We’re not doing this because we think it’s a safe idea! We’re doing this because the government is wrong and must be questioned! This is principled defiance!”  
“And a business venture,” Musichetta murmured with a small smile.  
“And a way to get alcohol!” Grantaire cried, toasting the room.  
Enjolras shot Grantaire a look of withering scorn. “This may be hard for you to understand, Grantaire, but some people have principles. Some people aren’t good only for drinking all day.”  
Grantaire shrugged. “Drink makes me happy, so why shouldn’t I do it? What purpose is there to life other than to be happy? It would be foolish to waste the only time we have. There’s nothing after this, Enjolras. Don’t fool yourself. Freedom will be a long time coming and it won’t come because one speakeasy decides to run on the principle of the thing.”  
Enjolras’ eyes blazed. “Freedom comes when the people demand it!” he shouted. “Freedom comes from people questioning the government! If what we do here enables one person to wonder why our freedoms are crushed, our purpose has been fulfilled!”  
Combeferre rested his hand gently on his friend’s shoulder and murmured into his ear, so low that nobody else could hear it: “Grantaire is only trying to rile you up, Enjolras, to see what you really believe. You don’t need to rise to his bait every time. He really does admire you, you know, and only wants to see that you believe in something when he does not—but you believe enough for the both of you.”   
Combeferre knew that Grantaire gave Enjolras a power over him that he gave to nobody else. One word from Enjolras could crush or uplift Grantaire; Combeferre could see that all too clearly and knew Enjolras would never notice. It simply wasn’t in Enjolras to think like that. That power, Combeferre supposed, was the price Grantaire paid for loving Enjolras.   
Enjolras took a deep breath and nodded. Just then, Jehan came back, followed by Cosette.  
“Are you hurt?” Cosette cried.  
Enjolras sighed. “Jehan, what—”  
“I just said there was blood on your shirt!” Jehan said defensively. “She was worried, Enjolras!”  
Cosette threw a white button-down in Enjolras’ face and he caught it with a look of surprise. “That’s what you get for scaring everyone and not even caring,” she said, but the playful twist of her mouth indicated that she wasn’t really angry. “That’s my dad’s, by the way. He says you idiots are welcome to steal shirts whenever you want, but it’ll probably be bit big on you.”  
“Your dad called us idiots?” Courfeyrac said, furrowing his brow.  
“No , that was my addendum.”  
Enjolras deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and threw them both on the table. Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Musichetta, Eponine, Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet did their best not to stare openly. Combeferre tried not to laugh at the expression on Courfeyrac and Grantaire’s faces, and he noticed, with interest, that aside from him, Cosette seemed to be the only person in the room who wasn’t affected by Enjolras’ blatant ignorance of his own beauty.  
Enjolras donned the borrowed shirt without noticing his friends’ reactions and rolled up the sleeves.  
“You look like you’re wearing a pirate shirt,” Courfeyrac grinned. “A pirate shirt for a rumrunner. It fits.”  
Combeferre carefully arranged his face to be as straight as he could make it. “Enjolras, next time, if you’re going to take money to give to the poor right before I balance the books, at least notify me, will you?”  
“Right. My apologies, Combeferre. I forgot.”  
“It’s fine. Just remember that for later.”  
“I will. Where are Feuilly and Bahorel?”  
“Fixing a car,” Combeferre said. “You need them in?”  
“I just want them to be aware that we’re opening soon. Mr. Leblanc has said he’s expecting quite a crowd tonight.”  
“Excellent!” Courfeyrac said. “I’m bringing someone too, Enjolras.”  
“Good. We’re always willing to inform more people of the cause.”  
Grantaire rolled his eyes.


End file.
